She loved beauty; she was fond of flowers; often she had spoken to him of her childish delight in her little excursions, rarely made, into the country.  He could see her now standing just there and feasting her eyes on this noble panorama, and he could see her face all aglow, as she might turn to him and say, “Isn’t it beautiful, Father Damon?” And she was down in those reeking streets, climbing about in the foul tenement-houses, taking a sick child in her arms, speaking a word of cheer—­a good physician going about doing good!

And it might have been!  Why was it that this peace of nature should bring up her image, and that they should seem in harmony?  Was not the love of beauty and of goodness the same thing?  Did God require in His service the atrophy of the affections?  As long as he was in the world was it right that he should isolate himself from any of its sympathies and trials?  Why was it not a higher life to enter into the common lot, and suffer, if need be, in the struggle to purify and ennoble all?  He remembered the days he had once passed in the Trappist monastery of Gethsemane.  The perfect peace of mind of the monks was purchased at the expense of the extirpation of every want, all will, every human interest.  Were these men anything but specimens in a Museum of Failures?  And yet, for the time being, it had seemed attractive to him, this simple vegetable existence, whose only object was preparation for death by the extinction of all passion and desire.  No, these were not soldiers of the Lord, but the fainthearted, who had slunk into the hospital.

All this afternoon he was drifting in thought, arraigning his past life, excusing it, condemning it, and trying to forecast its future.  Was this a trial of his constancy and faith, or had he made a mistake, entered upon a slavish career, from which he ought to extricate himself at any cost of the world’s opinion?  But presently he was aware that in all these debates with himself her image appeared.  He was trying to fit his life to the thought of her.  And when this became clearer in his tortured mind, the woman appeared as a temptation.  It was not, then, the love of beauty, not even the love of humanity, and very far from being the service of his Master, that he was discussing, but only his desire for one person.  It was that, then, that made him, for that fatal instant, forget his vow, and yield to the impulse of human passion.  The thought of that moment stung him with confusion and shame.  There had been moments in this afternoon wandering—­when it had seemed possible for him to ask for release, and to take up a human, sympathetic life with her, in mutual consecration in the service of the Lord’s poor.  Yes, and by love to lead her into a higher conception of the Divine love.  But this breaking a solemn vow at the dictates of passion was a mortal sin—­there was no other name for it—­a sin demanding repentance and expiation.

As he at last turned homeward, facing the great city and his life there, this became more clear to him.  He walked rapidly.  The lines of his face became set in a hard judgment of himself.  He thought no more of escaping from himself, but of subduing himself, stamping out the appeals of his lower nature.  It was in this mood that he returned.